


in the morning

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mentions of Moira O'Deorain, Porn With Plot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: Freedom provides too much time to think. Sombra is a nice distraction.





	in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry in advance for any formatting weirdness; Ao3 _did not like_ the formatting when I copy-pasted from LibreOffice and screwed it up. I tried to fix it but I might have missed things.

The artist’s experienced hands finish the wrap around her arm. She looks down at the pattern newly etched into her wrong-hued skin. Somehow it hardly seems to belong to her at all. Her arm is like her rifle, just a tool to be deployed. Her body is not her own. Now she has vandalized it. Something inside her balks at the appearance of the black ink blossoming under the surface. She is supposed to be pristine.

The artist is telling her how to care for the design. She isn’t listening. She listened to the speech the last time, when she had her back done. She stands and pulls on her long coat. It’s almost midnight and pouring outside.

Her guest is sitting in one of the other chairs, grinning, watching like the voyeur she is.

The little pistol is there in its holster, sewn into the lining of the coat. It is in her hand and then there is a bullet in the artist’s forehead and she is slumping to the floor as her blood and brains spill out onto the floor of her shop.

“ _Ay, pobrecita._ ”

The Widowmaker wraps the artist’s head as efficiently as she wrapped her arm. The floor is tile, easily cleaned with supplies in the shop. She fishes the keys to the store out of the dead woman’s purse. Her colleagues will arrive tomorrow and suspect nothing wrong until their coworker does not show up. Perhaps she was bad about calling in anyway, and it will take days for them to realize. Did she live alone? Did she have people waiting for her to come home? How long does it take for the world to notice a life extinguished?

“You didn’t _have_ to kill her,” Sombra remarks, still smiling.

The Widowmaker frowns. Yes, she did. A job complete; evidence destroyed; a loose end trimmed. It was necessary. But she doesn’t have the words to explain that to the woman watching.

The rain and the late hour mean the streets are empty. The occasional streetlight shines a cold spotlight on their grim procession. The Widowmaker doesn’t speak until they reach the bridge and the hapless woman’s corpse is swallowed by the Seine. Perhaps her body will wash ashore the next day. Perhaps it will sink and never be found. What does it matter?

She will live on as the Widowmaker does, in the last work she was destined to perform.

_Araignee du soir, cauchemar._

Sombra is sitting in the car with her as it makes its automated way back toward the estate. The Widowmaker slides from one moment to the next like an animation moves between frames. Disjointed moments given the illusion of movement. Her tattoo throbs under its wrappings. It did not hurt, not really, not the way the scars it covers hurt.

She feels tense, on-edge. Her thoughts dart in circles. She does not allow herself to linger.

“Are you going to tell me about them? ‘cause no offense, _araña_ _,_ but I thought you had better taste.”

She keeps asking herself why Sombra is there before remembering that she invited her. Then she has to ask herself why she invited her, and she knows it is for the same reason that she had the ink done in the first place. She is doing risky things. She is acting out. Her first uses of her newfound freedom have been to demonstrate, perhaps, that she does not deserve it.

She can imagine a widening of eyes, a curling of the lips, a wave of the hand that returns her to where she began. She planned this as a rebellion and yet she is terrified of the consequences.

Rain splatters onto the windshield. There are no other cars on this lonely road. Just dark fields and darker forests and the occasional town.

“Listen to me, damn it. Why did you bother asking if I wanted to come if you’re just going to ignore me?”

The Widowmaker doesn’t want to answer that question. She knows the answer, or would if she would let herself acknowledge it.

Sombra has proved good at filling the silence.

“I like them.”

“Yeah, I’d hope so. Just saying I thought you had better taste. Or classier taste. You were a ballerina, right?”

The whiplash comes on so fast it leaves her feeling nauseous. Her anger is instantaneous and overflowing. Unwelcome music rings in her ears and memories threaten the edge of her psyche. The phantom nerves of the feet Talon severed twinge. She wants to draw the pistol again and put a nice clean hole through Sombra’s head too to shut her up, but it wouldn’t stifle the thoughts.

“No,” the Widowmaker responds, crisp and icy, and turns to look out the window.

“Uh, yes, you were. Come on, I’ve looked up so many videos of you—”

“ _Lacroix_ was a ballerina.”

Sombra is unusually quiet. The Widowmaker observes her reflection through the furious splatter of rain on the glass.

She should have expected this. All the hacker cares about is adding to her arsenal of information. In every interaction she is observing, quietly cataloging, learning.

Undoubtedly she has dug up all the files on the Widowmaker. Quite possibly Sombra knows more about her life before Talon than she herself does. Her past is a sea of fog, but some details stand out, still too clear.

She could call _her_ and tell her that the reconditioning is patchy. She could tell her that she thinks she needs more of something, that the memories are still there and that they hurt. She can already imagine the monstrous nails gliding over her skin, the eyes red and blue boring into her. 

_Tell me how this feels._

She would see the tattoos. She would hate the tattoos.

“Come here,” she orders, imperious, desperate for distraction.

Sombra raises her eyebrows. The Widowmaker is certain she knows her meaning, but just wants to hear her say it. Wants to make the assassin beg. The whole world is the same. They all want her open and exposed and theirs for the taking. In another life she sold herself onstage while her feet came apart. In this one…

It’s new, still hers for the shaping. And it will be different.

“Kiss me,” she almost snarls. “Touch me. _Now._ ”

Sombra looks like she wants to make another smart-mouthed comment, but the murderous look on the Widowmaker’s face or her own desire or both preclude her.

Neither of them wore their seatbelts, which makes it easy for Sombra to straddle her knees and grab her by the lapels of her coat. Their mouths crash together. Sombra laps at her tongue, bites at her lips. She’s such a fucking _thorn in the side_ but she’s good at this; she seems to know what the Widowmaker wants. Sensation. The kiss turns metallic as blood from her split lip seeps into both of their mouths. Sombra licks over the wound and the Widowmaker sighs.

“Did it turn you on?” Sombra asks, ending the kiss. Her eyes gleam. Her lips are shiny with spit. “Shooting her. Is that why you did it?”

The Widowmaker pauses, considers honesty.

“Yes,” she says, and pulls Sombra back down.

The hacker doesn’t leave her lap until they’re back at the chateau, until her coat is gone and her silk blouse is unbuttoned and Sombra has left her neck mottled with bruises and sucked hickeys down her front. She wants more. She wants to feel more. She wants to be flooded with sensation. She wants pain or pleasure to drown out her own mind.

“ _Mierda_ , this place is even bigger in person,” Sombra whistles, jumps out of the car as soon as it stops moving. The Widowmaker remains alone in the back seat, cold air forming goosebumps on her exposed skin. The car is comfortable. Sombra atop her was comfortable. She doesn’t want to move.

“In person?”

The chateau is hardly impressive in the dark of early early morning; without light it is nothing more than a hulking shape framed against the stars. 

“Obviously I hacked into the security cameras. Come on.”

“Is privacy remotely in your vocabulary?”

“I value privacy the same way you value life, _araña._ ”

“I could kill _you_ ,” she drawls.

Sombra looks over her shoulder, hesitates, and then smiles broadly. The car’s headlights reflect off the metal implants on her shaved head. She is undoubtedly the most modern thing this estate has ever seen. Even the security cameras are dated from before the Crisis. A place seeped in history while the Widowmaker can’t even remember her own.

“It would be harder than you think.”

_Not for me._

The Widowmaker forces herself to climb out of the car. It is hard to stand. Fatigue has caught up with her. Lethargy is a constant side effect of her new body, and dragging the woman’s corpse to the river was perhaps more exertion than she should be forcing upon herself. Sombra turns, seems to notice her difficulty, but she offers no help. Perhaps she knows that it would be refused.

Her rebirth into the Widowmaker stole many things from the woman called Amélie Lacroix, but pride was never one of them.

Their footsteps echo on the floor. The place is drafty, even with all the windows closed. Heating would undoubtedly cost a fortune if she could even feel cold any longer.

“So why’d you bring me here? Not that I’m not having fun, but...”

The Widowmaker grits her teeth. She doesn’t want to deal with questions. 

_too big too empty too quiet t o o q u i e t—_

“Come,” she commands. She leads the hacker into the estate’s master bedroom. Sombra will follow, will come when called, because Talon’s human weapon is offering herself up; because no other person has been in this home in decades; because the Widowmaker is beautiful.

She doesn’t know the reason. But she knows that Sombra will follow.

And she does.

“What’s in the tank?”

The single lamp the Widowmaker has switched on is barely enough to illuminate anything. It throws long shadows across the room; the high vaulted ceiling remains cloaked in darkness. But it is light enough to show the terrarium resting atop the massive chest of drawers opposite the bed.

In the car Sombra’s hands played with her breasts and slipped beneath pants and panties to finger her, but this feels more invasive than all of that. More naked.

“Odette,” the Widowmaker says grudgingly.

“Okay, what’s Odette?” Sombra has crossed the room and is peering through the glass as if she’ll be able to make out anything in the shadows.

“She is a tarantula. My tarantula.”

A small and loathsome creature. Every time she looks at the spider she knows she should hate it, should be repulsed by it. But she is not. She can hold it in her hands and let it scurry across her skin and still she feels nothing, nothing.

She wants to feel something.

“You have a tarantula? _De pelos_! Can I hold her?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aww— oh, I get the tats now.” Sombra stays pressed against the tank for a few more seconds before turning.

The Widowmaker sits regally with her back pressed against the headboard and her long legs sprawled across the sheets. Her shirt is discarded; the straps of her bra hang lazily off her shoulders.

She gets to enjoy the way Sombra’s eyes widen, the way her gaze sweeps up and down to take her in. She wonders if the hacker can see the hunger in her own eyes. She wonders if the hacker knows what she actually wants.

Probably not. Best if not.

“You gonna take the wrap off?”

The Widowmaker glances down at her arm. She had all but forgotten the tattoo, all but forgotten how this night started. Blood has leaked and coagulated under the plastic, obscuring the design. She frowns at it. She wants to see the words as they should be, clear and precise.

“It can wait,” she decides. She doesn’t want to risk infection during the _activities_ to come.

Sombra stands at the foot of the bed and raises an eyebrow.

“Can _you_ wait?”

“Come _here_ , ” the Widowmaker says for the second time that night. She is aware that the frustration is evident in her voice. She is aware that she is desperate and disdains herself for it. But they don’t have too much time before the morning sun spills over the lake, and the bed is too big and too empty, like the chateau, like the farce she calls a life.

And Sombra smiles. Her jacket hits the floor. She’s just wearing a tank top underneath, but it emphasizes her muscular shoulders and upper arms. The dim light throws her face into light and shadow. Her jaw is sharper with her hair tied up in a ponytail.

She is not bad to look at. The Widowmaker imagines her skin will be warm and her hair will be soft, and she will be good to hold on to.

She thinks these things for a few moments before Sombra is on the bed and pressing her to the frame and confirming them.

With the two of them pressed together it is almost too hot. In the car there were layers of cloth separating them, but now there is just skin and skin. Like an amphibian, a cold-blooded creature, she leaches the warmth and wonders if she’ll burn.

They kiss, open-mouthed and hungry. Sombra bites again, uses tongue and teeth and lips to her best advantage. Down the Widowmaker’s jaw and neck she leaves bruises. The Widowmaker gasps and sighs.

It feels good, or at least it feels.

Her hands map out Sombra’s skin under her shirt. She’s soft and fiery hot. Underneath her bra her breasts are firm and full under the Widowmaker’s fingers. She lets out a whistle and rests her forehead on the Widowmaker’s clavicle when her nipples are toyed with, tugged and pinched.

The Widowmaker likes that. She likes a reaction.

Sombra is even nicer to look at with her tank top divested and neon green lace cupping her breasts. It’s a garish color, but she pulls it off. She’s good at ostentatious.

There is sweat beading on the Widowmaker’s forehead when Sombra leans in and sucks at her nipples. The sensation is foreign, bordering on unpleasant. Heat is all right, but the wetness rolling down her skin in rivulets quite another thing.

Sombra notices the frown and ceases. The Widowmaker wishes she hadn’t; teeth worrying her areolas had been quite a nice feeling.

She’s unused to having her reactions heeded. She thinks of someone else, someone for whom discomfort is an invitation to prod further and hurt more.

 _Tell me how this_ feels...

“Show me what that clever mouth can do,” she commands, and spreads her legs. Sombra grins and raises her eyebrows and offers no objections.

“Pull my hair. Don’t touch the implants, though,” Sombra responds, and then her long-nailed fingers are dragging the Widowmaker’s panties down her thighs and slipping between them to spread her open, and then there is just lovely wet heat engulfing her.

The sky outside is no longer black. Her windows face east, and just above the trees there is a tinge of pale grey sky. Morning, but she never went to sleep. Morning, but she never woke up.

She pulls the tie from Sombra’s hair and digs her nails into her scalp. It feels good to have something to hold onto. She can _feel_ the moans in response, rumbling through Sombra’s throat. The hacker swings one leg over the Widowmaker’s and rubs herself there. The Widowmaker obligingly shifts her calf, slides it back and forth. If Sombra wasn’t wearing pants, would she leave a sticky mess in her wake? What does she look like? Taste like?

The Widowmaker closes her eyes and tries very hard to feel something more. She thinks of a bullet through the tattoo artist’s forehead and her body limp on the ground. There is pleasure in that, but not enough. Just a fleeting moment.

She thinks of blood on her hands and other people she has killed. The light vanishing from a person’s eyes. Bodies stiff and broken. Death at her whims.

Gérard pale and mauled. Blood under her nails. A symphony in her head.

Sombra’s mouth feels good and nothing more than that. The hacker ruts against her and licks and sucks diligently. The Widowmaker waits for it to be over. She needs to unwrap her tattoo and wash it properly. She needs to feed Odette. She needs to catch up on her sleep.

The manor is empty. Sombra is there, doing just as she asked, but she is already a foregone conclusion.

Just like everybody else.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of companion piece to [pas de deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14354652), a longer oneshot I published back in April that focuses on Moira brainwashing Widow and the aftermath. If you enjoyed this you would probably like that, though it (unfortunately?) contains less sex. 
> 
> Comments always appreciated! Tell me your favorite line or how it made you feel or something you didn't like so much.


End file.
